


Bandaid for a Bullet Wound

by Zelos



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Apologies, Coda, Fix-It of Sorts, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Morality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 07:14:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7091092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zelos/pseuds/Zelos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“The conclusion is that there is nothing nefarious within those pages other than memories older than dust. You might as well have them back.”</p>
</blockquote><p>Tony returns Bucky's memories.</p><p>Spoilers for Captain America: Civil War.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bandaid for a Bullet Wound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nefhiriel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nefhiriel/gifts), [Imbecamiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imbecamiel/gifts).



> Inspired by Sebastian Stan's reveal of the contents of Bucky's backpack:
>
>> In his backpack there are a dozen notebooks that compose the scattered memories dating back to as far as he can remember which somewhat piece together a scattered life. In a similar way to Alzheimer's, he's written things down, for fear of losing his memory again. He was prepared, were something to happen, to walk away with nothing but that backpack, which is why it's the only thing he takes and knowing full well that not everything those pages contain is pretty.
> 
> For Nef and Cami, who inspire (and argues with) me. :)

The video flickered but remained focused on its target. The white car glided gracefully through the curves in the road, never wavering despite the eight drinks the driver had consumed.

In the bushes, an engine revved.

The video crackled in time with his heartbeat, one, two, _crackle_ , three. He has watched this recording so many times he could recite what happened when with robotic accuracy, down to the second. And still—too late to change anything. Twenty five years too late.

The motorcycle sped up until it pulled even with the white car. Right hand on the handlebars. Left hand raised—

Bang.

Stop. Rewind.

Stop. The metallic hand might’ve gleamed in a different video, one with better lighting. In a different video, a different reality, it might’ve waved.

“Boss,” FRIDAY said gently.

Tony sighed into the dark, ripping off the glasses and hurling them across the room. Six hundred and eleven million dollars’ worth of premium engineering landed with a fragile clatter.

Tony lifted his glass; it shook a little. At least he didn’t throw this across the room. One swallow, two. He sat there, silent, and just breathed.

Some part of him knew it wouldn’t work. The glasses worked off of his memories, his experiences, all the sensations buried in the interplay of neurons. A shitty video recording from his memories was one layer removed. It was far harder to modify something when all he had experienced was a capture of the scene and not the scene itself.

Besides, even if he could change the video’s contents, it wouldn’t help. There was a fine line between therapy and self-delusion. He suspected he had crossed that line a long time ago.

Stop.

FRIDAY turned the syncing projector off. Tony didn’t protest.

He set the empty glass down on the the table and reached for the phone. Turned it between his fingers—the plastic shell, the inelegant bulk, the graceless lines. Tony flipped it open, and the number pad lit up in soft blue light. The screen’s garish colours blinked disarmingly, like a child’s toy.

He clicked to the address book. There was one entry: no name, just a number. He didn’t recognize the area code. Didn’t bother looking it up. Couldn’t even tell you if it was American.

Actually, he probably could if he bothered thinking about it.

He didn’t bother thinking about it.

Tony has never called that number. Never texted. Steve was equally silent from the other side. But Steve had sent that letter. An olive branch, an overture. Tony has not returned the sentiment.

There was a gentle whirring sound, then another clatter. Dummy was trying to pick up the broken glasses.

“Leave it, Dummy,” Tony said, eyes never leaving the screen. Slowly, methodically typing out the words, no spelling errors, all the punctuation. The phone actually used T9. Go figure, the nonagenarian was behind the times. Damn thing was so old FRIDAY couldn’t even write the words for him.

_Let me know when Barnes wakes up._

He has written this same text sixty two times. Steve has never received it.

_I have something he needs._

There was a crunching sound like Dummy just rolled over something he shouldn’t have. A short, guilty silence; Dummy’s arm dipped down in a squeaked apology.

“It’s okay.” Tony rose; the phone thudded against the floor. “It didn’t work anyway.”

 

FRIDAY tracked every bit of news about the members of Team Cap. Tony has never asked her for said information, nor has FRIDAY ever volunteered them—not unless a certain general-turned-politician was about to crash down Tony’s door to rant about their fugitives. Sometimes not even then.

FRIDAY’s personality was a considerable departure from JARVIS’. JARVIS tended to call Tony out on his shit, in his dry and understated way. FRIDAY seemed to believe discretion was the better part of valour, and was often reluctant to speak unless she deemed it necessary (Tony has no idea where this restraint had came from; it certainly wasn’t from him).

In the wake of the Sokovia Accords, Tony could not decide which approach was worse. Not that he had a choice, since JARVIS was gone. Vision would gladly help, if asked, but Tony tried to avoid him nowadays—Vision needed to be his own person, not spend his life in Tony’s shadow (eventually Tony would stop thinking of Vision as JARVIS-with-a-body. He was working on it). Besides, FRIDAY would probably be miffed if Vision showed up to play JARVIS’/FRIDAY’s part as if she wasn’t even there.

“Did I send something? Forget something?” Tony asked everyone and no one in particular, cramming the flip phone into a pocket.

“I don’t know, boss,” FRIDAY answered, and Tony could’ve sworn he didn’t program his AIs to lie.

 

When his phone finally rang, Tony was across his workshop repairing Rhodey’s braces. He would’ve missed the call entirely if You hadn’t chirped in alarm. “You, shut up. FRIDAY, shut it up, I’m busy.”

“Sorry, it’s not one of mine,” FRIDAY answered apologetically.

Tony’s heart sank a little, because there was only one phone that wasn’t under FRIDAY’s control. He dropped his acetylene torch, swung over two work benches, and fumbled the phone out of his jacket pocket. Somehow he managed an unaffected drawl as he flipped the phone open: “Hello?”

A slight pause. “Tony?”

Tony resented the faint surprise in Steve’s voice. “That’s me.”

“It’s Steve,” Steve said redundantly. “I…how are…” he trailed off, realizing how ridiculous pleasantries were after everything, and barely bit back a sigh. “You asked me to call.”

“Yeah. Where are you and Barnes?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I think my message spoke for itself.” It did not, and Tony knew it.

In front of him, a holographic world map flared as FRIDAY began tracing the call. Tony jerked his head up toward the ceiling and shook his head.

If FRIDAY had a face, she would’ve raised her eyebrows. Still, the hologram disappeared. Tony could’ve sworn You made the robotic equivalent of tsking as he shut off the acetylene torch.

Steve’s silence said volumes.

“If anything fucks up,” Tony refrained from mentioning that fuckups were usually precipitated by himself, “he’ll need to rebuild his memories again. This would be the best way to do it, because they’re his. You can’t do it for him.” And even if everything _didn_ _’t_ go pear-shaped, there was nothing defensible about keeping a man from putting his life back together.

“And you can?”

“No, which is why I’m giving them _to_ him, not doing it _for_ him.” He wasn’t exactly qualified to screw with minds—not that qualifications or lack thereof has stopped him from doing any number of things, but Tony thought he shouldn’t take the risk this time. “I think you’re supposed to get permission before you mess with people’s minds.”

Steve snorted, and Tony figured Steve was running a mental checklist of all the times Tony didn’t ask for permission for something. It was a fair point. “I thought we were careful.”

“You forgot the genius part.” Steve had been spotted very occasionally over the years, but never with Barnes. Barnes didn’t seem like the type to willingly sit around while Steve did his brave hero shtick alone. Going under to keep himself from endangering others seemed like the stupidly noble thing to do. Wonder where he got that from.

Steve drew a rough breath. “Don’t…” he faltered slightly. “Don’t do anything, okay?”

It occurred to Tony that since Steve had called him, whoever was in charge of clearing out Barnes’ head probably wasn’t confident in their chances of success. If they were, Steve probably wouldn’t take him up on his offer.

“Two against one, right?” As soon as he said it, Tony almost wished he could take it back. Almost.

Steve’s laugh was breathless and brittle. The line went dead.

 

They met at Peggy’s grave. Smart of them to not reveal where Barnes had been hiding. Tony has his suspicions—not a lot of places had both cryostasis technology and the willingness to harbour international fugitives—but didn’t press the point. Of all the places in the world, this was the best—maybe only—place for a truce. They hadn’t agreed on much, he and Steve, but this was one of the few.

_She’s gone. In her sleep._

Tony hadn’t visited her much—or at all—in her final months, ever since her faded smile landed on his face and she murmured his father’s name. Tony had recoiled and ran away, her confused shouts chasing him out, and that had been the last time he had seen his Aunt Peggy alive. He’d spent her last days hiding behind the nursing home’s daily reports and his guilt over Charlie Spencer.

He hadn’t even been able to put his feelings aside long enough to carry her into her final resting place. He should have. But he’d always thought _maybe tomorrow_ , like there was always one more day. Stupid, for a man who has had firm reminders of his own body’s mortality.

Steve and Barnes were waiting for him, baseball caps pulled low on their heads; obviously Natasha’s penchant for disguise has not rubbed off on Steve in the least. Barnes was wearing a bulky jacket that hid his missing arm, but he still carried himself with a faintly lopsided air, betraying just how long he’d slept and how little time he has had to get used to everything all over again. Or maybe Tony was simply projecting given he had exchanged blows with Barnes and came out rather poorly for it.

“Tony,” Steve greeted, a little tense, a lot cautious.

In fairness, it was an enormous leap of faith for them to come in the first place. It spoke to how much Steve loved Barnes and how desperate he was for a hope of clearing Barnes’ head. Tony wondered who convinced whom to come in the end.

Tony didn’t even bother with a greeting. “Can you give us a minute?”

Steve and Barnes exchanged a look, then Steve stepped a little ways away. Far enough to give them some pretense of privacy, close enough to intervene if things got ugly.

Because a fight turned out _so_ well for Tony last time.

Barnes spoke first, with the weary air of wanting to get it over with. “You want an apology?” His words were low and rough, like he’d forgotten how to speak.

“Would be nice,” Tony said absently, then instantly regretted his words.

Barnes’ remaining hand fisted, but his voice was steady. “I’m sorry about your parents.” No further explanation, no self-flagellation, just simple words that would never be enough.

Guilt roiled in Tony’s stomach, the shame hot and thick; Tony may never be able to look at Barnes in the eye without wanting to punch him, but that wasn’t what he was here for. “You had no choice.” His words lacked Barnes’ frank grace; they sounded more like someone pulled them from his throat with a fishing line. “I did.”

With slow concession, Tony dropped the backpack that had been rumpling his sports jacket to the ground.

Barnes’ eyes widened. After a moment, he bent down to unzip the backpack. Little black notebooks spilled out onto the tidy grass. Barnes leafed through one, then another.

Tony might’ve just stunned the Winter Soldier into silence.

“The brass has analyzed those an averaged two hundred and seventy one times each, ran them through every decryption method known to mankind, I’m pretty sure they even tried to get Thor to use Allspeak translation on it, and the conclusion is that there is nothing nefarious within those pages other than memories older than dust. I mean, they solve a bunch of cold cases about long-dead people, and whether they’ll prosecute you for those is another matter, but there’s no point in them keeping the notebooks.” His unaffected air was not quite successful. “You might as well have them back.”

Barnes’ brows twitched; he looked up. “They just let you take them?”

“There might’ve been a fire.” Tony shrugged. “Good thing they had backups and scans and everything. Besides, they have so much evidence against you for so many charges, it’s not like they need the originals to crucify you in a court of law. They didn’t miss it.”

The corner of Barnes’ mouth curled slightly. “I thought you’d be on the straight and narrow, since you’re so…law-abiding.”

Tony’s turn to stare. “Your educational materials are sorely lacking.”

Barnes rose to his feet, his eyes on Tony’s, his mouth working like he was trying to figure out the words. “I—”

“ _I believe in the Accords,_ ” Tony interrupted, because he couldn’t handle it if they started exchanging actual conversation about debts and thanks.

Steve started slightly where he stood. But Tony knew Steve was listening, and the unsaid words hung in the air: _I will have to bring you in. Eventually._

The Accords wasn’t perfect, far from it, but Tony believed—he _has_ to believe—that there was something good under it, that it could be tempered into something useful (Ross and Zemo be damned). That vigilantism could not, and would not, be the answer, no matter how good the man behind it was. One man’s hubris just led to self-made messes done with the best of intentions, and well-meaning mistakes meant jack shit to the ones left behind. Some things couldn’t be fixed no matter how much money you threw at it.

But Barnes and Steve defying the Accords had fuck-all to do with Barnes needing to know his own head. If the brass wanted to bring him in, then they should bring in Bucky Barnes, not a ghost wavering between the shadows of the Winter Soldier and the WWII sergeant.

It was a very fine distinction, but Tony was used to rationalizing. Of defending the indefensible.

Maybe Natasha was right about his ego.

The thought stung; Tony roughly pushed it aside. He has spent the second half of his life trying to make up for the first. He has to believe that his choices, from Stark Tech to Iron Man, from the Accords to the notebooks and everything in between, could one day be judged against his mistakes and come out a good man. _His_ choices. Not Steve’s, not anyone else’s.

Something flickered across Barnes’ face, but all he said was, “did you read them?”

Tony thought of Barnes’ scrawled handwriting, patchy ballpoint ink on the pages, the way “Sergeant Barnes” never faltered on the page. He felt like Barnes punched him in the throat. It took him three tries before he could reply: “Only one.”

He was done. Truce was over. Next time he saw them he’d be doing his damnedest to bring them in. Good thing he was so busy. Steve and Barnes were nigh impossible to find anyway.

Tony shoved his hands into his pockets, spun around, and began walking.

“Stark,” Barnes called from behind him. Tony froze, then turned. There was a rawness to Barnes’ expression that matched his own. “I remember them.”

“I hope you always do.” It was as much to himself as it was to Barnes. Tony tried not to look at the backpack dangling from Barnes’ remaining arm. “Good luck, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Bucky.” The man’s voice was a little too loud in the quiet. “My name is Bucky.”

Tony nodded, then continued walking. “Good luck, Bucky.”


End file.
